


Road Trip

by cakeisnotpie



Series: Clint and Phil (MCU Avengers Universe) [7]
Category: Marvel, Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-27
Updated: 2013-05-27
Packaged: 2017-12-13 04:14:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/819850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cakeisnotpie/pseuds/cakeisnotpie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Working for SHIELD means long hours of boredom occasionally mixed with short bursts of action. Everyone learned how to deal with the down time. For Clint, that involves music, being a smartass and dreaming about one Phil Coulson.</p><p>This story takes place prior to the events in The Avengers.</p><p>Based upon artwork by marielikestodraw. See the story for a link.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Road Trip

**Author's Note:**

> This story kicked my ass and made me work for it. Not entirely happy with it, but I'm not sure I'll ever be completely happy, so here it is! Be sure to click the links to below for the music and artwork mentioned.

[Based upon the top artwork in this post by Marielikestodraw.tumblr.com](http://marielikestodraw.tumblr.com/post/49640280378/this-was-a-the-life-of-clint-and-phil-serie)

 

Working for SHIELD meant long periods of insane boredom mixed with minutes of pure terror. Fast action, adrenaline pumping, fight for your life minutes that haunted dreams. But to Clint, the worst part was the long road trips and generic hotel rooms with nothing to do. To keep from going crazy, every SHIELD agent found some way to fill the time; Stilwell used to carry a book with him everywhere until he got an ereader that he filled with classic literature, including every novel by Jane Austen.  Hill took knitting needles and yarn because everyone could use a warm black scarf and the needles made great weapons. Natasha actually meditated in very advanced yoga postures to increase her flexibility.  She also enjoyed Greek tragedies and reading trashy romance novels, particularly the ones with vampires and werewolves; she’d laugh the whole way through.

Clint kept a full queue of movies on his tablet, but he also knew how to play the guitar, the piano and the drums; a guitar case was easy enough to pack in the trunk of the ubiquitous black SHIELD sedan. He enjoyed many different kinds of music, always open to experiencing new ones; whatever tiny town he found himself in, there was always a local band playing somewhere. He’d drag anyone off duty with him; sometimes he’d even wrangled Phil Coulson, SHIELD’s best handler and all around bad ass, to sit on a bar stool with him, drinking whiskey and ryes and talking about the evolution of jazz music. It was hell, of course, to be so close to the object of his hottest sex dreams and do nothing but debate the merits of Etta James versus Billie Holliday. He’d much rather be running a hand up Coulson’s blue jean clad thighs – god, but Clint really loved it when Phil wore jeans. The man was sexy in denim even if he didn’t know it.

One of Phil’s favorite ways of wasting time was thick fantasy epics and historical fiction; he owned every version of the King Arthur story ever filmed on DVD. Phil still listened to books on CD while driving on the road or scanned all the stations on satellite radio for podcasts. Even Phil’s love of _Buffy the Vampire Slayer_ fit; the agent had a soft spot for strong women and mouthy smartasses, as if Natasha and Clint weren’t a dead giveaway. And then there was Phil’s penchant for spinning long elaborate fantasies that involved a certain archer and a safe house in the south of Spain that would make even Clint blush if he learned of them, at least for a few seconds before he kissed Phil senseless and dragged him off to bed. 

All too often, Clint was on his own, farmed out to other teams that needed his specific skill set; Colorado Springs was one of those milk runs with very green junior agents, a handler anxious to prove herself, and an uncomfortable perch. Keeping an eye out for the target – a middle tier drug lord looking to make a lateral move into arms dealing – Clint had little to do but let his mind wander, to think about things he’d never let himself ponder if Phil or Natasha were there. With just his ear comm, his bow, and a little blessed shade from a few sheets he’d hung on an ancient metal clothes line, he imagined Coulson’s voice in his ear, saying the things Clint wanted to hear. If they were going to have the conversation, the one that Clint dreamed out and had actually practiced when he was running in the park or under the steady stream of the shower, it would be at a time like now, just the two of them, isolated from everyone else on their own channel. Break past the barriers with the intimacy of their voices; just the thought made him shiver as he crouched in the relentless heat rising from the tar roof.

Unsurprisingly to Clint, things went south fast; every bit of intel they had proved to be wrong or grossly underestimated.  When the bad guys broke out the RPGS, Clint had to evacuate, leaving a lot of skin behind as he slid down the side of the brick structure only moments before it exploded. One of the probies almost lost a leg when he jumped from a moving vehicle, Drayton, the handler, ended up with a concussion and a broken arm, and Clint’s tracer arrow was the only thing that saved the mission. He got the call for his next assignment while Drayton was still in with the doctors; tossing his ready bag and bow case in the back of a sedan, he headed out after a quick pep talk with the probie.  Still covered in grime and ash, he tuned the Jeep’s radio to a classic rock station that played whole albums and let it all go with the first notes of _[Dark Side of the Moon.](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TY5winxPMvA)_

New Mexico was scorching, dust devils stirring along the sides of the seemingly endlessly flat road; it took a whole 2 minutes and 35 seconds to drive from one end of town to the little motel on the other side where SHIELD had booked all twelve rooms. That meant sharing, and Clint didn’t give much of a damn by the time he rolled into the lot at 3:47 a.m., exhausted and running on the fumes of that last coffee-like sludge from a mini-mart. The desk clerk gave him the key – real metal with a little teardrop  plastic card and embossed number – and he stumbled into the room, trying to be quiet, not expecting to find Phil Coulson sprawled on his back on one of the twin beds, still in his dress pants, white shirt and black dress shoes, snoring lightly. Usually, Clint ended up with one of the other specialists; Coulson bunked with Stilwell since the two of them took alternating watches. Closing the door and latching it, Clint made it to the far bed, not bothering to turn on a light, the streetlamp glow through the thin curtains enough to let him kick off his boots and drop his dirty shirt into the corner. He was torn between a shower and bed, exhaustion warring with the need to be clean; he’d just about decided to crawl under the covers and say the hell with it, when Coulson spoke.

“Shower, Barton. I could smell you when you pulled up.” Turning his head, Phil’s eyes cracked open and a smile curled at the edges of his lips. “The bed will still be there when you’re done.”

“Yes, sir. Just tired, sir.” Clint fumbled in his kit and pulled out a pair of underwear, some shorts and a t-shirt, mostly clean. “Go back to sleep.”

“Drayton get anyone seriously hurt?” Phil asked, pushing himself up to kick off his shoes; he neatly placed them by the edge of the bed.

“Took the brunt herself. She might make a good handler yet. Bad intel going in.” He unbuckled and kicked his pants off, heading in the tiny bathroom with just a corner shower, tiled square and thin clear plastic curtain.

“That looks like it hurts,” Phil’s voice followed him and Clint paused at the door. Long angry scrapes covered his arms and his back was gouged and pitted from where he’d made his hasty escape. Even the heavy cloth of his uniform couldn’t keep the sharp edges from breaking the skin, purpling blotches of  bruises forming.

“Just a little skin. It’ll grow back.” He heard Phil’s huff as he shut the door; Coulson hated it when anyone got wounded, took it as a personal affront.  Next would be the lecture about hitting medical and getting patched up, followed by that look, the one that said ‘I’m disappointed in you Barton, get off your ass and deal with this like a fucking grown up.’ Clint flipped the knob and was pleasantly surprised to get a steady stream of water that heated up to steaming fairly quickly; he didn’t dawdle, the lure of closing his eyes almost too much, drifting off once with his hand on the wall, the warm spray lulling him to sleep better than a glass of hot milk. Quick dry, briefs and shorts, and he was back out in less than seven minutes, heated air competing with the sputtering air conditioning unit that chugged along under the window. Debating about a shirt, Clint pulled back the chenille spread and thin white sheet.

“Lay down and let me take care of those.” Phil rolled up; his look brooked no argument and, in the darkness of the room, Clint was worn-out enough to agree without the usual game of one-more-smartass-remark. Settling on the bed, mattress sagging under him, Clint buried the side of his face into the wafer-thin pillow, folding it over to try and make it softer, letting his eyes follow Coulson as he dug around for a med kit. While he’d been showering, Phil had changed into SHIELD black shorts and t-shirt, legs and feet bare in an effort to cool down.

“So, the Expo sounded like fun. I get a two-bit arms dealer, and you and Natasha get Tony diva Stark.” No way to miss the fireworks that ended with the arrest of Justin Hammer; there were too many amateur videos and news footage reels out there to not end up on the 24-hour cycle. Besides, he needed to say something; waiting for those hands to touch him, even if it was to spread anti-bacterial gel, was starting to wake him up. Coulson could do that; a word or a simple touch and Clint’s body wanted to sit up and take notice. Cool and gentle, the first brush on his arm sent little tingles that crawled up to his shoulder; with hooded, half-closed eyes, he saw the concentration in Coulson’s face, just the slightest tell tightening of his brow.

“Next time I see Stark, I’m taking my new taser.” He made light of it, but Clint could read the tension in his boss; when things went bad, Coulson always carried the responsibility close to his vest, sure he could have done something differently. “I get all the good jobs. Billionaire playboys who think they’re superheroes and now babysitting a hammer that fell from the sky.”

“That’s ‘cause Fury likes you.” Clint couldn’t help but wiggle a little when the cold spray of the sealant hit his tender skin. That got a real smile from Coulson, who tucked the can back into the med kit.

“Nothing to do for the rest; you’ll just have to suck it up and live with the ache. Shouldn’t be too much for you to do but sit around and wait here.” For just a second, fingers rested on the small of Clint’s back, no more than two heartbeats and then Coulson was gone, bed rising but warmth lingering. Clint couldn’t remember when exactly he realized that Coulson felt the same. One day he simply knew, looked up from his seat in the cafeteria to catch the steady gaze of unguarded blue, and the truth settled in his gut, a stone cold certainty that they were in this screwed up mess together. No need to talk about it, they were both already compromised; there was nothing to do but hold the line and never let it go further. Finding satisfaction only in movie marathons, jokes over the comm line, debating about music, greasy diner food, and occasionally, so rare that each one was precious, the barest of touches, gone so fast that they were more dream than reality

“Don’t tell me this is a milk run, sir,” Clint said as his eyes closed and he drifted. “That’s a sure way to end up with a clusterfuck of an operation.” The phantom feel of Phil’s fingers stayed with him until he was asleep.

It wasn’t a milk run, of course.  Storms, gods, warriors three, massive destroyer robots, and bridges that traveled through space ... it was craziness and bedtime stories that left six agents wounded and a shitload of destroyed cars and buildings. Even before the cleanup was even started, the call came, and they both were back in a car, bypassing the smoking ruins of the town as they headed out, Coulson driving because he claimed he felt safer behind the wheel. Clint was pretty sure Coulson hadn’t forgotten that time in Toronto … which was Natasha’s fault, anyway. Woman drove as if she was in the Indy 500 or a demolition derby all the time. No, Clint figured Coulson really drove in order to control the radio. Spinning through the stations, Coulson skated past seventeen types of jazz, a block of gospel, and all the news channels.  Clint sat quietly, unusual for him; half of the fun was complaining and grousing about the changes, making smart ass comments the whole time. Once, they’d spent three hours on the way to the Upper Peninsula arguing the merits of Gilbert and Sullivan versus modern musical theatre – Clint held out that the [paradox song](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XXhJKzI1u48) from _Pirates of Penzance_ was head and shoulders above anything Andrew Lloyd Weber ever wrote.

Fingers tapped the buttons on the steering wheel as Coulson focused on the road, but Clint knew the man was reading him as he merged onto the main highway heading towards the interstate, probably wondering why Clint wasn’t snarking at him yet about the music. What Clint wanted was to trap this moment, freeze it in amber and string it around his neck to remember. He was content, an emotion he rarely ever felt and only exclusively when he was with Phil. The road whizzed by, music shifting, and they were both relaxed, bodies within a hand’s breath, close enough that casual brushes were easy to arrange, laughter open and honest, no need to school their faces into disinterest. He could live with this, he thought; it was better than going back to being isolated and alone. If he couldn’t have Phil in his bed, he could at least have him in his life this much.

 “Irish music?” The sound of a fiddle filled the cabin of the car as Coulson finally chose a station. Not that Clint was against it; a good pint, some bubble and squeak, and celtic music in a pub was a great Friday night. “Thor got you in a drinking mood?”

“You ever been to [Paddy Reilly’s](http://paddyreillysmusicbar.us/)?” Coulson asked. “Guinness on tap. Great music.”

“Saw [Rising Gael perform _Tam Lin_](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sVcw2KrIxRA) there. But the burger at [Donovan’s](http://donovansny.com/) is the best.” Damn fine burger, big enough for two people. Now Clint was hungry, thinking of pub food; some chips would be great especially if loaded up with salt and dosed with malt vinegar. There’d probably be nothing but cafeteria food at the facility; he’d have to weasel Coulson into stopping before they got there … wherever it was they were going.

“On Wednesday night, they have shepherd’s pie to die for, plus the best fiddle player in the city.”  The music changed and a mournful voice sang about a [woman in a long black veil](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RYE-x0Yje98). “Friday there’s an open mike.”

“Ah-ha! So that’s it. You’re never going to let me live down that karaoke bar, are you?” Clint rubbed his hand over his temple as he laughed, propping his boot on the dashboard.  “Natasha and her ice cold vodka shots.  Never again.”

“Come on, Barton. Your version of[ _Roxanne_](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3T1c7GkzRQQ) brought down the house.” Coulson turned down the volume. “What was that line again? Put on the red light?”

“Not going to do it. No way, no how.” Clint shook his head, but he was grinning as he protested, scrolling through his Starkphone with his thumb. “Besides, I don’t know any Irish songs.”

“I bet with enough black and tan, you’d think of something.”

Popping his phone in the cradle, he hit play and tapped his foot along with the familiar atonal opening chords.  The tango beat of the music paused and Sting’s voice belted out the first word, Clint joining in.

_Roxanne. You don’t have to put on the red light. Walk the streets for money, you don’t care if it’s wrong or if it’s right._

Watching out of the corner of his eye, Clint saw the smile Coulson tried to hide behind his hand, and it only egged him on.  He put on his best falsetto for the chorus then launched into the verse.

 _I loved you since I knew you. I wouldn't talk down to you. I have to tell you just how I feel. I won't share you with another boy_.

He sang, the only way he’d ever have a chance to say it. Coulson didn’t look at him, but they both knew why he wanted to hear the song. As Clint hit the chorus again, Coulson joined in, not the greatest singer, but adding the refrain. Scrolling through the menu, Clint queued up [“I am the Very Model of Modern Major General,”](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=R1dy44jV8EM) a song sure to get a rise out of Coulson, letting himself enjoy this moment before they arrived at a top secret facility where Clint would be assigned to watch a glowing blue cube.

All too soon, Loki emerged through the Tesseract and claimed Clint Barton as his own, and Philip J. Coulson would pick up a big gun to face the villain down and be declared dead.  The Avengers came together, Clint included, for the biggest battle the world had seen, leaving New York City, along with both Paddy Reilly’s and Donovan’s pubs, littered with piles of rubble. In the days after, Clint crawled into a bottle to escape the truth of the wasted years, listening endlessly to a playlist that mixed [The Chieftains](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mGIs-xGMpyY) and [Lorenna Mckennitt](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JsNJuhBfbPg) with Gilbert and Sullivan and a liberal dose of The Police.  The opening cords of _Roxanne_ pierced the open wound of his grief, and yet he forced himself to listen over and over again, sure he deserved the pain.

Later, when Phil made his miraculous recovery and they stopped being idiots about the whole meant-to-be-together-forever part of their lives, Phil talked the whole team into a Friday night at the newly rebuilt Paddy Reilly’s. Tony bought a round of Guinness for everyone and the best Irish whiskey for them. Pepper turned out to be addicted to malt and chips. Thor wanted to take the band back to Asgard after hearing only one set; Jane talked him into booking the group for a party at the tower first. Bruce smiled and ate a whole shepherd’s pie, Steve spent the evening chatting up the pretty, petite female bartender named Karren, and Natasha complained about the quality of vodka even as she helped Tony finish off their own bottle of Jamison. Before the evening got started, Clint made arrangements; the fiddle started the first notes, transforming the song into a slow folk ballad, and Clint sang the lyrics with only a few black and tans in his system. The blush on Phil’s face was worth giving Tony ammunition … Stark videotaped the whole performance, zooming in close when Clint sidled up to Phil and sang that he wouldn’t share him with another boy … and Phil showed his appreciation later that evening when they were alone in their room, pleasantly drunk and wrapped in each other’s arms.  A bonding experience, Phil called it, but in reality it was an affirmation, knowing that they were doing the right thing despite the emotional pitfalls of letting themselves be together.

There were still down times, of course – super villains weren’t always attacking -- but now Clint and Phil had a different way of filling those long hours; they watched movies and read books and listened to music, but they did it all together, sharing the same couch or car or, Clint’s favorite, bed. Touches were frequent and no longer hidden. And they still spun their fantasies, but now they were  more likely to be played later. There was no settling for the closest they could get. There was, instead, living and loving to the fullest extent.

 

 

 


End file.
